“I need everything you can dig up on two people. Deep background. I need what’s on the Net and anything you can find from other sources. First is Selma Conroy. Don’t know if that’s her maiden or married name.”
“Sexy Selma? God — don’t tell me she’s back in business. She went to school with my mom, and I’m pretty sure she was at least some part of my dear parents’ complicated divorce.”
“Look … this is for something really important. Major. You can’t tell anyone. An-nee-one.”
“Lips are sealed.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Okay … this is tied to the Homer Gibbon case. And there is a strong possibility that Selma Conroy is Gibbon’s aunt, and she filed to have his body brought here to Stebbins.”
Marcia grunted.
Trout said, “That’s it? I thought you’d be surprised.”
“Actually … I’m not,” she said, “’cause now that you say it I can see a little resemblance.”
“To Selma?”
“No … to her sister.”
“There’s a sister?”
“There was. She died a while back. Look, I’ll put that stuff together. I know where to look for everything on the Conroys. Who’s the other target?”
“Prison doctor from Rockview. Herman Volker. When I did a background on him for my story I got as far as him being from Europe. The name’s German, but the accent isn’t. Sounds Polish or something. Lived here a long time. Medical degree from Jefferson in Philly.”
“Okay. I’ll get what I can get. Anything else?”
“No, sweetie, but I need this ASAP.”
“Is this tied with what’s happening at Doc’s?”
“I don’t know. We stopped there and ran into Dez, and that could have gone better. She ran us off.”
“Ouch,” she said. “I’ll see if I can find out what’s going on out there. Lots of cops on that one and more coming in, and they just made a second call for ambulances.”
“Who’s hurt?”
“Unknown. They’ve switched to a tactical channel that we can’t get.”
Trout felt a momentary flash of panic in his chest.
Marcia, insightful as ever, said, “I’ll call Flower over at the station and see if I can pry anything out of her. Dez probably beat someone up because he looked like you.”
“Nice.”
“Seriously, Billy, I’m sure everything’s copacetic,” Marcia laughed.
“Thanks. You rock, Marcia.”
“You have no idea,” she said with a wicked laugh and hung up.
Goat was grinning as Trout put his phone away.
“What?” asked Trout.
“When are you going to tap that?”
“She’s a coworker.”
“Uh-huh. Not after hours and not between the sheets. She’s a wild woman.”
“How the hell would you know?” growled Trout.
Goat’s grin broadened. “The only way there is to know.”
Trout looked at him. “Is there anyone you haven’t screwed?”
“In Stebbins?”
“In North America.”
Goat considered. “I haven’t screwed that cop with the tits.”
Trout shook his head. “You’re not her type.”
“Why? ’Cause I’m Jewish?”
“No. ’Cause you’re sane.”
He turned the key and put the car in drive.
“Aunt Selma’s?” Goat asked.
“Aunt Selma’s.”
Billy Trout cut through the parking lot, bullied his way into traffic, spun the wheel, and kicked the pedal down toward Selma Conroy’s farm. He didn’t care at all about the speed limit. All of the cops were busy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The gunshot echoes bounced around under the low ceiling of storm clouds. Dez whirled, instinctively pushing JT out of the line of some imagined fire as she reached for her gun. It was all reflex and it was very fast.
A long, high piercing shriek ripped through the air, muffled by humidity and flattened by distance. There were two shots. Then three more. Then continuous fire until a second scream rose higher and sharper. The scream disintegrated into a wet gargle.
Then silence.
“There!” JT barked, pointing toward the tree line, but Dez was already running.
“Shanahan!” she yelled. “That was Natalie Shanahan. She went into the woods with that kid, Diviny.”
JT caught up with her as they pelted along the path that lead past the mortuary. Officers came spilling out of the building, running in the same direction. Chief Goss waddled along in the center of the pack, but the fitter cops were outstripping him, racing toward the trees. Everyone had guns drawn, but Dez didn’t like what she was seeing. Most of these guys were as inexperienced in combat as JT, and the academy training was far from enough and, for most of them, too long ago. Or too recent. They ran with panic on their faces. Someone was going to get shot, she thought, and it wasn’t going to be the bad guy. It was going to be another cop, or maybe a civilian.
She poured on the steam and cut left to get ahead of the pack, waving one arm in an attempt to slow them to a safer pace. But those screams still seemed to echo in the air.
“JT … watch my back.”
“Got it,” he said. “Go.”
Dez reached the tree line first and then slowed to a careful walk as she stepped from gray daylight to purple shadows. JT broke right and brought his gun up. They fanned their barrels back and forth in overlapping patterns. They saw nothing except tree limbs and bushes shifting in the breeze.
As the other officers reached the tree line, Dez stepped clearly into view and raised a fist. Most of them spotted it and skidded to a stop. Two officers collided and fell, but JT was there to help them up and warn them to silence.
Dez turned to look at the cops. Two from Stebbins and seven others. Three of them, she knew, were combat vets. Dez saw them watching her, and she hand-signaled them to advance in a wide line. She waved the others back.
“What do you need, Dez?” whispered JT, coming up on her flank.
“Keep them back. Line of sight with each other, but spread out. Make sure Simmons keeps his fucking finger out of the trigger guard. I’ll take the others with me.”
He nodded and faded back to close on Officer Simmons, the youngest officer in the county.
Dez checked left and right to see that the vets were formed up in a wide line but behind trees. Two of them — Schneider and Strauss — had pistols in two-handed grips, the third — Sheldon Higdon from Barnesville — carried a FN self-loading shotgun.
Dez pointed forward with a slow movement of her hand and she broke cover and began advancing at a quick walk-run from tree to tree, zigzagging to alternate her route and deter possible return fire. She heard the crunch of shoes on dry leaves as the others kept pace. After three hundred yards, Dez stopped to assess the terrain. She saw
